Friday, June 1, 2012

403.1 kms: Once Brewed-Steel Rigg-Hawk Side-Leadgate-Shitlington Crags.

I am bog-christened. Whole boot in. Mud down into the inside. I am just glad the boot came too when I managed to pull my leg out. I am definitely back on the Pennine. I think that pennine is actually a midland word for bog. I think the signs aren't saying 'walk this way', but rather 'watch out! there is a bog if you go that way towards Leadgate, seven and a quarter miles'. Needless to say I didn't make my twenty-five kilometre day to Bellingham (Bellin-gym). I cursed a lot. I may have, at one stage, rumour has it and only Wesley can confirm, slammed both poles into the ground (which meant they sank about a half a foot) and let off the f-bomb and the the word bog in the same interjection. But isn't it odd, because even the worst days sometimes happen for a reason. If it had been easier going I would have made it to Bellingham and probably be laid up in some generic pub (or a very fabby one?). Instead I am on a crag top in someone's spare room. I am not sure that the lovely folks here want me to say anything more—it is a bit of a long story involving marmalade, camping stoves, bunk beds and environmental water testing and you'll have to ask me in person when you see me (and then possibly be disappointed because it is maybe not as intriguing as that list may suggest). All I can say is this feels like the toastiest bed I've had all trip, I've had a good laugh and chat with my hosts and the in-betweens of my toes have been thoroughly cleaned by the dog. The only bad side, I just realised, was that I kept them late from making their dinner—and for that I am so sorry! 

I've decided to can the Pennine as well. I'll just keep an eye out for the rarer pennine-warnings on other routes. I would have ended up with a twenty-eight kilometre day with no facilities except the should-have-already-been there Bellingham. It'll add a bit of mileage probably—but who's counting. Turns out I am. Did you notice? I'm up where most of my other trips finished. That means I am going into unchartered kilometre counting territory. Very exciting.


My question: Do young people not understand hosteling? Not really my question because now I am answering it. I had two girls in my room last night (damn). They were at the pub. I came back earlier than them and jumped into bed, planning on a early start for the long day. I left the light on so they could organise themselves when they got back—past eleven. Mind you, I couldn't sleep because of the light. I didn't fuss or fight when they came in and admittedly they were quite good, but when I got up this morning they tossed and turned and huffed like blue whales. Hosteling is all about the different time zones of the inhabitants of a room, it is all about plastic bag rustling while others sleep. How can they not know that? How can they not expect, in a hostel where everyone is a walker (except them, I am not sure how they landed there),that everyone will be going to bed at nine and getting up at seven and moaning about their feet. That is just the way it is. What's the most annoying thing that you have had happen to you in a hostel?


I notice heaps of blogs with a question at the end now. Do you?


Good night to Shitlington Crags, good night to you.



  1. Now I would be very interested to know if those slightly annoyed two girls, are the same type that talk on their mobile phones in a Cinema and eat from those plastic potatoe crisp bags from the seat behind you?

    Do they have Gold Class in The United Kingdom?

  2. Replies
    1. I Shitlington Crags you not, that is what the place was called.